TWO
Mrs. Cecily Armstrong stared down at her hands, panic flushing her skin.
The gentleman had studied her overlong—the sort of lingering stare she hadn’t received in nearly a decade. Of a surety, it wasn’t her faded beauty nor twice turned pelisse that had caught his eye.
Had he recognized her?
Her pulse thrummed in her fingertips with a fluttery panic. She had evaded detection for over six years. How dreadful for her luck to dry up now.
With his hat pulled low to block the ever-present wind, she hadn’t seen the gentleman’s face clearly. And he was a gentleman—someone she might have been introduced to in her former lifetime.
She stole a glance at him. The sharp cut of his jawline and the upright bearing of his shoulders hinted at a compelling handsomeness.
Not that Cecily would notice.
Well . . . not that she should notice. But as she was female and not quite in her dotage, unapologetic male beauty had a way of arresting her attention.
Handsome, as she mentally named him, tilted his head, surveying the stuck wheel, affording her a better view of that finely cut jaw and straight, regal nose.
No. She definitely didn’t recognize him. But had he recognized her?
The second gentleman snorted and looked away with an annoyed flick of his head. Between his hat, upturned collar, and thick scarf, Cecily could see little of his face. Did he seem vaguely familiar? Or was it more that her mind recognized a type and pattern of behavior?
Once, her life had been littered with the drawling tones and biting comments of imperious men. All of them haughty like this one astride his horse next to Handsome.
Both gentlemen were dressed in the height of fashion—caped greatcoats, starched neckcloths, sculpted top hats.
Every item pressed and brushed by a veritable army of servants, no doubt.
She even caught a glimpse of silver buttons and gold thread.
The men sat on horses worth more than she would earn in five years, if not longer.
Their lack of saddlebags hinted that a coach-and-four laden with trunks would not be far behind.
Neither man bothered to introduce himself, nor ask her name.
These were gentlemen who did not offer an acquaintance to a lowly house servant like herself.
They were likely on their way north to Dunrobin Castle—the seat of the Countess of Sutherland—to visit with her ladyship’s son, Lord Gower.
The Sutherlands were the only nobility of similar hauteur in this region.
Haughty kept his gaze averted. As if the mere sight of her tainted his vision.
Cecily knew she should be insulted, but all she felt was relief. If Haughty was someone she had been introduced to in the past, his lack of interest would prevent detection.
“I’m not stopping,” Haughty said to Handsome, English vowels aristocratic and clipped.
“No one has requested your assistance, Brother.”
“You and your bleeding heart.”
“Walk on, then. You needn’t remain to watch.”
Handsome swung off his chestnut stallion with practiced ease. He didn’t seem surprised or concerned about his brother’s rude behavior. Handsome’s accent might smack of English nobility, but at least his manners were fine-honed. He wasn’t so high in the instep as to refuse helping someone in need.
“Don’t be long.” Haughty clucked his horse into a walk, continuing down the road.
Handsome pivoted to face her.
Cecily startled to see that his right arm ended at the elbow, the empty sleeve pinned up. The sight pinched something in her chest. This man had known loss.
He had to be an aristocratic soldier. A hussar or dragoon, given his easy seat in the saddle.
Now that she properly studied him, his military past became obvious.
The regimental firmness of his spine, the competent lift of his chin.
Of course, he had looked down the barrel of death and survived.
He had probably saved his entire company and a litter of stray puppies in the process.
All in a day’s work for a gentleman such as himself.
He only lacked the word “Hero” embroidered across his chest.
Naturally, he would stop to help her.
If he had been a soldier, then it was unlikely their paths had ever crossed. She would be as unfamiliar to him as he was to her. As if confirming this thought, he met her gaze without a flicker of recognition. Just polite solicitousness.
Her pulse slowed.
“I thank ye, good sir, for your assistance,” she said, ensuring her Scottish accent stayed true, no trace of aristocratic English in her vowels.
The chance of him recognizing her might be slim, but not nonexistent.
“I can be of help. I was simply unsure where to begin, particularly given poor Jura’s agitation. ”
“No need.” Handsome waved her off with his gloved left hand. “Remain where you are, madam.”
He placed a palm on his own horse’s shoulder, commanding the beast to stand in place.
The stallion truly was magnificent—clean lines, glossy coat, bunched muscle.
He likely jumped and soared with ease. A wistful tendril of longing sighed through Cecily’s body.
Once, she had loved nothing more than the wind in her hair and a horse underneath her.
Yet one more dream sacrificed forever.
Polished Hessian boots squelching in the mud, Handsome ran a comforting hand down Jura’s neck, whispering something that caused the horse’s ears to relax. She whickered and nudged his chest. He rubbed her forehead affectionately.
Yes, Handsome had definitely saved a litter of puppies or two in his lifetime.
Giving Jura one last pat, he stepped into the brush lining the road and, with a few sharp tugs, retrieved several willow branches.
He braced the branches under the stuck wheel, shoving with his solitary hand, creating a wedge-shaped ramp for the wheel to climb out of the mud.
Despite his physical limitations, he worked in quick, practiced motions.
Cecily tried not to stare, but it was difficult going. A competent man going about doing competent things always spiked her admiration. She thought perhaps he was sneaking looks at her, too. Probably wondering how she had been such a ninny as to get herself stuck in the first place.
“Thank ye again, sir,” she said, as he rounded the gig and ran a hand along Jura’s flank, checking the mare’s legs. Despite his aristocratic mien, Handsome had a way with horses.
“Think nothing of it.” He looked up at her then, sunlight limning his face. Brown eyes. Soft and calm. Kind. The gaze of an old soul—one who had seen much of life and had chosen quiet and peace.
Perhaps that was why he said little. Perhaps that was why she felt calm in his presence.
Swallowing, he turned away, but not before Cecily caught a hint of red on his cheeks. Surely, it was merely the brisk wind putting that color there. In her experience, men such as this one—heroic, wealthy, aristocratic—were immune to blushes.
Crossing back to Jura, he spoke to the horse again, voice low. She whinnied and nuzzled his chest like a long-lost friend. He chuckled, his face morphing from merely handsome to heartbreaking.
The heat in Cecily’s cheeks migrated south, pounding her heart and coiling under her sternum. How many years had it been since the sight of a handsome man affected her so?
“Ready?” He glanced up at her.
She nodded.
He coaxed Jura into action, and with a few tugs at the harness, the gig wheel burst free with an audible pop. Cecily swayed on the bench, grabbing the side to steady herself.
“Ye are a miracle worker, sir.” She laughed in relief. “I cannot thank ye enough.”
He touched the brim of his hat in reply. Snagging the reins of his horse, he threaded his left foot into the stirrup and, with his solitary hand on the pommel, pulled himself into the saddle.
It was an astonishing feat of pure strength. How muscled were the shoulders under that greatcoat? The heat in Cecily’s chest flared hot.
The large chestnut stallion danced, but Handsome controlled him easily.
As she sat gaping, he dipped his head. “Good day, madam. I wish you well on your journey.”
“And you, sir.”
With a subtle shift of weight, his horse walked on, affording Cecily an excellent view of said shoulders.
Yes, this gentleman couldn’t disappear soon enough.
He rekindled an ache for things she had once believed in. A man who would see a stranger in need and stop to help. Or sacrifice a limb to save the life of another. A gentleman who might cherish a wife. Or, at the very least, treat her with respect and kindness.
In short, the sort of gentleman who only existed in imagination and fairy tales.
Because if Cecily knew anything, it was this—
Even Mr. Handsome was not as perfect as he seemed.
In her experience, men only brought heartbreak.
The letter in her pocket was proof positive of this.
The boggy road and Jura’s skittish mood meant Cecily arrived home an hour later than anticipated. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky.
Her brain spent that extra hour fretting over the letter she had retrieved. Her uncle’s words pulsed with urgency.
All is not well, unfortunately. Lord D has become more bold in his search to find you. I hear tale he has been asking questions of our friends and acquaintance. Do not let your guard slip.
The words curdled Cecily’s stomach.
After news of George’s death last summer, she had been hopeful that, at last, she would be free.
Free of the haunting memories of his gleaming blond head, sneering lips, and ruddy cheeks.
Free to resume a life beyond the fraught half-existence of these past six years.
But the eight months since his passing had proved the opposite—Cecily was in as much danger as ever, with no end in sight.